We’ve moved in to a new place a couple of weeks ago and we’re hankering to fill the space with some activity. The family’s filled with Pacquiao fans so we decided to get a pay-per-view subscription and host a viewing party for the Pacquiao-Mayweather “superfight.” I woke up giddy. Contrary to popular belief of me being just a cranky bastardly hermit, I actually enjoy the company of good family and friends. I went to work at the kitchen to fix a brunch buffet of bacon, hotdogs, corned beef, and my signature scrambled eggs for our guests.
Not being a fan of the undercard fights, I opted to just pass the time waiting for the actual bout by watching my beloved San Antonio Spurs in a Game 7 against the LA Clippers. I thought I was comfortable with the possibility that the Spurs wouldn’t repeat since they got to sucker punch LeBron last year and avenge the travesty that was 2013. However, I found myself pretty riled up perhaps after finally nailing the last batch of crisp-fried bacon. But the game… It was the final five minutes and it was peppered by rapid-fire lead swaps. I really thought that the Spurs had it in the bag but then Chris Paul happened. It felt like 2013 all over again. Dagger. With a twist. I’ll give Chris Paul credit for his heroics but as far as the bitter fan in me is concerned, it’s that bollocks last minute whistle that cost my Spurs another run at the finals.
Having already suffered disappointment, I was actually hoping for a better result for the Pacquiao fight. While I had been a Pacquiao critic, I didn’t want Mayweather to win so I guess this time, I was actually rooting for Manny.
Our guests arrived just in time to partake on the food and I was pretty happy that no one hurled after eating.
But then the fight happened. The opening rounds came. Then the middle rounds came. And the final rounds came. And then the decision. Excitement turned to anxiousness. Anxiousness turned to boredom. Boredom turned to disappointment. Disappointment turned to bitterness.
Anyone who could stomach being a bit objective about the fight would agree with the decision. Mayweather won that fight. Sure it was boring and Mayweather danced for the full twelve rounds but he did just enough to win. The cynics in all of us would say that the decision was luto. And I’m sure the conspiracy theory that the boxing mafia cooked that one al dente and Manny’s even in on it is alive and well.
At the end of the day, it was quite a bloody Sunday. Loss came after loss. The manliness yardstick Ron Swanson said, “There has never been a sadness that can’t be cured by breakfast food.” Sorry, Swanson. Filipinos and Pacquiao proved you wrong. And me and Chris Paul.